I make that 8 pros to 6 cons. Viva la lardass.

When I started this post, I had planned a simple, triumphant wrap-up preaching the overwhelming benefits of fathood, but, in an effort to get my BMI suitable to score 3 grand from this clinical trial, in the last fortnight I’m ashamed to say my jaw line has emerged.

I’ve betrayed my culture, my identity and isolated myself from my legion of butyraceous brethins, and for what? A cheap buck.

I’ve fasted away my role within my social circle. My personality feels noticeably lighter. Now I’m minus my novelty bulk, my gimmicks, such as my renowned fat man greed are just not playing. No longer can I intercept crisps without consent, innocently attributing blame to my persona.

Now I worry it appears all those years of  predatory swooping all-you-can-eat buffets and riding the gnarliest waves of the meat sweats, will be taken for exploitative, undercover journalism.

I fear I’ll be taken for a tourist, a scrupulous fackin’ journo, infiltrating the roly-poly lifestyle to gain unadulterated access to this unhealthy, unspoken for community, packing on pounds, purely to hammer out a derisive exposé, having shed the mass.

What could have been a humorous, heartfelt insight into the struggles of the fat, now just seems a cheap, snide stab at a section of society who I have nothing but love and adoration for.

Although, these words will seem hollow and meaningless from the gaunt, traitorous husk that has penned them, to all my fatties out there in the struggle, accumulate that cheddar; stack that dough; get that C.R.E.A.M.

Fatties Uniteâ„¢.

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